


He was born to blow your mind or something along those lines, tonight

by little_fella (na_shao)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Makeup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 00:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17950478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/pseuds/little_fella
Summary: “I miss you wearing lipstick, darling.” Theseus frowns over his cup of tea, his eyelashes pale waves that echo through space.





	He was born to blow your mind or something along those lines, tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting my fanfictions from tumblr here.

* * *

“I miss you wearing lipstick, darling.”

Theseus frowns over his cup of tea, his eyelashes pale waves that echo through space.

“It was  _one time_  at that queer jazz bar. You liked it that much?

“You looked  _marvelous_  with it. I keep thinking about it, from time to time.”

And Graves may be laughing a little at the end of his sentence, but Theseus really was beautiful with red lipstick and lashes curled with black, eyes heavy with desire and mouth dripping with sexual fantasies.

_Oh._

_Mercy Lewis, does he want this._

_He does._

Theseus is smiling, his whole face lighting up at the words, and, oh, the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks—

The way his eyes crinkle at the corners; how Percival’s fingers graze his knee, demanding,  _shall we do this again? Walking on the decades of our skins and ghosts of these things?_

_A graveyard of smiles and how miserable I was without you and your careless warmth; how the tears tattooed on your cheeks and my cheeks started to heal after bleeding for years on end._

The way they have been tracing new paths and new beginnings along cracked lines in the time being since they’ve found each other again, in the accomplishments of unexplored new sunrises and sunsets, both of them;  _how we begin again._

Later on, Theseus presses the lipstick tip against his bottom lip, leaves a bloom of color in its wake; peach to scarlet, his lip stretching gently with each careful, delicate stroke, and the red is so stark against his pale skin, sharp and bold and rich, that Percival has to remember to  _breathe._

The thin smoke of desire rises in a rope that flutters and swirls, waves of heat; a sweet trap, painfully stitched into the flesh, into the bones; the fragrant zaps continually passing back and forth between and under his fingertips to Theseus’ constellations-freckled shoulder, to the green-infused skin of the inside of his wrist. Fireflies; fireflies and their dainty glow.

Percival sucks in a breath, considering— the current rushing past his ankles.

Theseus is looking back into the mirror as he finishes up with a few easy strokes, the colour running along his inner lip; and it’s the soft gold-specked green of his eyes, the intricate, bloodshot red of his lips that get to Percival the most.

He pushes Theseus’ red hair aside and leans over to kiss the back of his neck, earning a shudder in reply, running his hands along every inch of him; quickly finds Theseus’ palpable joy breathtaking, the way his hands curl on the edges of the sink, how powdered pink spreads like watercolour along the tight lines of tendons and muscles stretching in the cold, yellow bathroom light.

Percival rakes his forearm with his nails and Theseus’ neck is red with desire, his lips drawing close to the mirror and clouding over, almost painting the surface scarlet with lipstain; Theseus, who vanishes behind his own sighs and moans when Percival pins him against the sink and slips his wet fingers on the small of his back.

Lazily, deliberately so slow, he runs a finger from there to his asscheeks, electricity sparking at the drag of callouses on sensitive skin; leans in because he loves nuzzling his face at the base of Theseus’ neck and breathe him in deep, feeling the scent of spices and lemon rack the very inside of his nose. The fingers curl inside of him and rub circles there, applying pressure against him in the most enthralling way.

_And you bled on me, you bled on me, you bled on me like poetry in no hurry to be free—_

_A cherry tree and sparkling granules of sugar, a collar of diamonds, your bruises and teeth marks._

There’s a feeling coiling in his gut, sparking in his veins whenever their lips brush and touch, a wet warmth, and especially when he catches Theseus in the mirror— the intensity in his eyes all the more evident when it’s magnified in the reflective glass in front of them.

Mercy Lewis, Theseus already looks  _fucked out of his brain,_  eyes heavy-lidded and dripping with sweet rapture, lips still the most entertaining shade of red, spit-slicked— kissed out of his bones as sore bruises dance like galaxies and swirl deliciously along the lines of his purple flesh.

He rubs his cock over his hole while he waits for Theseus to give in, groaning when the head catches on his stretched rim and spreading Theseus’ cheeks even further apart so he’s completely exposed, absolutely helpless, on display for Percival’s hungry eyes. He whimpers low, the back of his neck exploding in crimson clouds and pink petals rimmed brown.

“You’re dripping all over the floor, baby,” Percival murmurs, quiet and heated, almost strangled with lust.

“Whose fault is that, _I wonder,_ ” Theseus grumbles back, cheeks flushed like a sunset, like a summer sky burning bright after a hot day and chest collapsing with each shaky breath. His cock is straining eagerly against the cold tiles of the sink as he waits for Percival to make his move, to have him at  _fucking last._

_The sight of fresh new leaves should never frighten our core ever again; yet, you’re another one of these stellar components and heart-stitched pearls that shine like ghosts in the moonlight._

Percival gazes at the green hemisphere swelling before his eyes, observing the light that catches upon the reflective surface of the mirror, and he thinks, I missed this so much,  _I missed you so much, how could I ever think I could do it without you?,_  memories burning like a fever darting across the scarred expanse of his own flesh.

Stars boil over and fall; Theseus’ heart is how the sun should be: ripening orange, then deepening crimson.

Slipping his fingers out of the tight, hot mess, he slides his cock into his body, soft wool and sharp bones, and the room is pressing heat over their skins, melting Theseus’ lipstick a little and pushing pink on the lapis of his veins.

The corner of the red-haired man’s mouth quirks up. “Lipstick seems to be making  _someone_  very hard, I see.”

“You  _feel_ , more likely,” Percival smirks back with a little grunt as he pushes deeper in Theseus and makes him moan loudly, moving against him like the tide coming in. “You always moan so well for me, Thes.”

“I don’t let  _anyone else_  make me moan s—so easily—  _fuck—_  you can be s—sure of that,” Theseus mumbles, disjointed, in an exhale of breath, thin and harsh and electrifying Percival’s insides as if organs had been injected with liquid thunder. The words are just the side of biting and possessive, spelling out  _I’m yours and you’re mine, it’s a deal, it’s us, it’s this way._

How the British Auror makes him wither in the momentary shared glance of their eyes is a delight, turning fears to dust and sparking up love from scraps; the way makeup kisses his face, half proper half smeared, half past tense half amnesia, lips racing against one another, the whispers, cadmium blue,  _Theseus, Theseus, Theseus—_  how Theseus is quite certain he’s going to explode from being filled so good as pleasure curls in his spine.

A scratchy cheek and a breath on it— smears of lipstick like crimson rivers;  _and_ _here we are, we begin again, the slow swirl of a brook at dusk._

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @ angryzilla and on twitter @ spreadtheashes.


End file.
